


Iron and Fire

by VagrantWriter



Series: Iron and Blood [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack Relationships, I love them all, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Platonic Relationships, because I love her, show!Missandei
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories about the women who would have changed Theon Greyjoy's life if their paths had ever crossed.</p><p>Dany has finally landed in Westeros, albeit a little farther north than she'd been aiming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Westerosi were supposed to be _civilized_. By all accounts from her brother, from Jorah, from Ser Barristan, the Westerosi were _supposed_ to be civilized. And yet so far she’d seen much that would make the Masters of Slavers Bay proud.

Daenerys Targaryen held her disgust behind a mask of calm indifference as she walked the dungeons of this place—what had Jorah called it? The Dreadnaught? No, that didn’t sound quite right. He’d told her she didn’t need to be here for this, but after it had become apparent that many, if not most, of the prisoners in the dungeons were young women or girls, she’d known this was something she’d have to face. Even if the lot of them were guilty, she couldn’t imagine a crime deserving of the brutality she saw inflicted on these girls.

“Shh,” she hushed to a girl of no more than twelve years. “You are free now. I will protect you.” The girl stared up with bloodshot eyes. The front of her dress was caked in old blood, and she looked to have not eaten in some time. They’d been unable to coax her out of her cell, meeting only with terrified shrieks, which was why Dany was here now.

She ran her fingers through the girl’s tangled locks. The poor creature sniffled and clung to Dany’s skirts, but in the end had not put up a fuss as she’d been led from the tiny cell and handed off to Missandei. “See that she is fed and cleaned.” Those were the standing orders concerning the prisoners for the moment.

The men were more difficult to deal with, since it was uncertain if they were being held for legitimate charges or not. Nobody liked the thought of releasing potential rapists and murderers, and so the guards—or those who had surrendered during the short skirmish—were brought in to determine appropriate response per prisoner.

As she’d guessed, many of the remaining prisoners’ crimes were either petty or not deserving such punishment. This one stole a loaf of bread; that one had not properly stabled a horse, which had then gotten sick.

It was becoming more and more difficult to keep her mask up. _Civilized indeed._

Who _were_ the lords of this keep? The Boltons, her mind supplied from her brother’s lessons. Bannermen of the Starks, who had sided with the Usurper to take her father’s throne. They had a horrid sigil—a flayed man on a cross. She’d seen their work on some of the prisoners, swaths of skin flayed away to reveal pink underneath. Not all of the Boltons’ victims had survived.

“Your Grace.”

Her head snapped up. The surrendered guards had taken to her new title—or soon-to-be title, in any case—easier than even she had. It took her a disoriented moment to realize she was being hailed to the end of the hall.

This was the lowest level, the darkest and dankest of the dungeons. They had not come across a living prisoner in some time.

“There’s one alive in here,” called one of her own men, an Unsullied soldier named Black Louse who had taken well to his language lessons, even if his accent was still very thick.

She picked up her pace.

“In there,” Black Louse said, pointing to a cell too dark to see into. “He won’t come out. Shall I…?”

She held up her hand to silence him. To the Bolton guard she asked, “What is this man’s crime?”

The man shrugged. “He’s a turncloak.”

“But he’s not been executed?”

Again, the man shrugged.

A turncloak, a traitor. In Essos such cowards were put to the sword. But this prisoner was a traitor to the Boltons, to the Starks, to the Usurper.

“Give me a torch.”

“Your Grace—”

She only had to hold out her hand and Black Louse relented any protest, rushing to provide her with his own torch. Holding the light aloft and gathering her skirts, she entered the tiny cell. And immediately threw a hand over her mouth and nose. The smell was awful in a way she had been unprepared for. It brought back memories of slave quarters, human beings forced to live among their own filth. Black Louse had said there was someone alive in here, but she was hard-pressed to see in all the…dirt. But no, there _was_ something alive, something moving just out of the periphery of her light. It shrank away as she drew near.

“Shh…” she hushed as she had to the girl earlier. “I am Daenerys Targaryen, rightful Queen of Westeros, and I will not let anyone hurt you.”

The creature whimpered.

“Do you have a name?”

Heavy breathing.

“Reek.”

She held the torch higher to illuminate the old man. He was so thin, he looked like he would shake apart under his own trembling.

Dany turned to the door, where her armed guard and the unarmed Bolton guard stood watching her. “This one needs to be fed and cleaned as well.”

Black Louse nodded curtly and entered. The old man screeched as he was advanced upon. He struggled and pleaded to be left along as he was yanked—rather more harshly than Dany would have liked—to his feet. He was crying and shrieking and he would hurt himself if he carried on like this.

Dany drew near and placed her palm against his gaunt cheek. He stilled, probably more startled than anything.

“Shush now,” she whispered. “You are free. I will protect you.”


	2. Chapter 2

If Dany had it her own way—and why not? She was Queen after all—she would burn this cursed stronghold to the ground and move on towards Kings Landing. Except a raven had come bearing troubling word from even farther North at the Wall. A siege. An army. The dead arisen.

“We can’t be sure it’s the truth,” Jorah advised as they walked the halls of the Dreadfort—right, that was its name. Awful name. “This talk of Others and White Walkers. Let me tell you, Khaleesi, the North holds fast to legend and myth. Every Northern lad grows up with the tales.”

“And yet,” she countered, “there are those who so recently would have counted dragons as legend and myth.” The flagstones echoed with the dual clicking of their heels. The Dreadfort was large and empty, its lords now hanging on the battlements. Their deaths had been swift, a testament to her mercy. “I will send a scout, someone I trust, to confirm these accounts.” And something within the heat of her blood told her they _would_ be confirmed.

She paused, turned, and gave him a pointed look.

She heard his breath catch in his throat. “Khaleesi,” he stammered. “You would entrust me with such a task?”

“Do you think it a mistake?”

“No, Khaleesi,” he said, too loudly, too quickly. “I will serve you well. I am…honored beyond words.”

“Then go. I do not wish to stay in this wretched place longer than necessary.”

He nodded, bowed at the waist, and hurried off.

Once he had left her alone in that empty hallway, she felt his absence as strongly as when she had sent him away from her before. Her mind was still plagued with doubts about accepting him back at her side, and she couldn’t deny that things were different between them now, more cautious. They had crossed the Narrow Sea together, and she’d watched the gleam in his eye grow the closer they came to his old homeland. He’d missed this land enough to have once betrayed her for the opportunity to return. That was not something she could easily forget.

She did not like being alone in this place, however. It was cold. The air was stale and did not agree with her. The North of Westeros was bitter cold compared to anything she had imagined. She hated it. Hated it and the icy cold barbarians who populated it. And yet, those barbarians were her people now, their home her kingdom. She would protect them. From themselves if need be.

She walked along, hugging herself and grasping futilely for warmth, when she heard a commotion. Several voices screaming, the splashing of water, a sound like heavy barrels being rolled down the stairs. She hurried around the corner, alarmed that fighting had broken out. She had just started taking Westeros and would not lose her grasp on it so soon.

She came to a door flung wide open, a swarm of activity within. A woman broke from the room and ran for the hall, arms over her head to protect herself. She gasped upon seeing the Queen standing there.

“Your Grace,” she said breathlessly,” you don’t want—”

“What is going on in there?” Dany craned her neck to see around the woman but could not discern the cause of the scuffle.

“Nothing, Your Grace. Just a bit of difficulty with one of the unfortunates you sent up from the dungeons. Poor dear—”

A loud wailing like an angry cat.

“—is having some trouble with his bath. But really, it’s nothing you need concern yourself w—” She stopped midsentence as Dany pushed her way through.

The room inside was a still life of chaos as everyone stopped mid-motion. Three washerwomen, two completely soaked, stood over a washbasin that was only half-full—the rest of the water was on the floor. Two guards stood in the corner over a creature hunched there. They seemed torn between grabbing for the huddled mass on the floor and acknowledging that the Queen herself had entered the room. After a second or two, they went with the latter, snapping to attention. The creature looked up and peeked out from between hands with missing fingers.

Dany recognized the old man from the dungeons that morning, his thin face and thin hair. She looked to the washerwomen for an explanation.

“He won’t undress for the bath,” one finally offered.

Dany frowned at that and took a step towards the creature. “Stand down,” she ordered the guards. They did, though not without a look of reluctance.

“You really shouldn’t, Your Grace. He’s dangerous.”

“Sharp fucking teeth!” the other guard cried, holding out a hand with bleeding tooth marks.

“Easy,” Dany addressed the old man. But now, in better light, he didn’t seem quite so old as she had assumed. His hair was white and brittle, his jaw collapsed in places around missing teeth. His eyes were old as he regarded her, and yet he had the air of a young man. “You’re safe. I’m not going to allow anyone to hurt you.”

He whimpered. His eyes pleaded.

“You must want a bath.”

He shook his head. “Lord Ramsay would never allow it.”

Lord Ramsay? Ramsay Bolton?

“ _Ramsay_ ,” she said, emphasizing the lack of title, “is dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

He shook his head again and closed his eyes, blocking her out. “No. No, this is a trick. I’m not _allowed_ to have a bath.”

She strode forward and grabbed his face between her hands to still his motion. His whole frame went rigid. “Do you know who I am?”

Eyes still closed, he shook his head as best he could.

“Look at me,” she said firmly.

He did. There was terror in those eyes.

“I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful Queen of the Iron Throne. Tell me, who has more power: a lord or a queen?”

“A queen,” he squeaked.

She nodded in approval. “My authority trumps your lord’s. My word is final. And my word is that you will let these people help you by allowing them to clean you. Do you understand?”

She felt a prick of guilt for pulling rank on such a damaged creature, but she knew from past mistakes that the downtrodden didn’t always respond well to a sudden void in authority. She would have to fill that void, if only for a moment.

He looked up at her. “But…they’ll see.”

She cocked her head. “You don’t want to undress?”

He gripped her wrists. The guards tensed, but she looked over her shoulder to let them knew he wasn’t hurting her. His grip was as strong as a child’s, and with all the same desperation. “They’ll see that I’m not a…” He gulped. The next part was a mere whisper as his eyes flicked downwards, to his lap. “Not a man.”

She kept his gaze until understanding dawned. She leaned closer to whisper so that the others wouldn’t hear. “Did Lord Ramsay…did he cut you…there?”

A miserable nod.

She lifted his head so that he might meet her eyes again, trying to make her grasp gentle as possible, but even then it felt like he would shatter in her hands. “Do you remember my guard from the dungeons?” she asked. “The one with the dark skin and leather armor?”

He nodded.

“His masters cut him too. And do you know what I did to _his_ masters?”

He shook his head. His eyes were on her. Rapt.

“I _burned_ them.”

“You…?”

“They died screaming, with terrible regret in their thoughts for hurting those whom I had given my protection to.”

For the first time, something like life came back to his eyes. She’d seen that look many times and hoped to see it many more. It was the light of hope returning.

His grip on her wrists fell away and she let go of his face. “You don’t need to undress, but you don’t need to be afraid, either. These women only want to help you, and they will best be able to clean you without these.” Her hand brushed the sleeve of his ragged, filth-stained shirt. “If you undress, I will get a change of clothes for you. Clean and warm. How does that sound?”

It was difficult to distinguish his small nod among his trembling, but it seemed he had agreed.

She stood. Her hands were filthy from touching him.

“Get him cleaned up,” she said to the nearest washerwoman. “He shouldn’t give you any more trouble. And you,” she addressed the guards, “fetch him a clean set of clothing. When he’s been bathed, show him to my quarters.”

They shared a stunned look between them. What were they wondering? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t their place to question their Queen.

She gave her new charge a soft look, and he watched her go, eyes just beginning to brighten.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone feel free to correct me on my Westerosi history. I'm a little rusty.

It was well after sundown—it got dark so early here!—when the guards knocked. Dany had almost forgotten she’d sent for the prisoner, and as they brought him in, she almost didn’t recognize him. His hair had been shorn short, and now that he could no longer hide his face behind his ragged mop and beard, it was truly apparent that he was no old man. For one, he didn’t have a wrinkle anywhere. His sallow skin was stretched tight over his body, exposing every detail of every bone underneath. The clothing they’d given him practically drowned him in its fabric.

“Has he been fed?” she asked.

The guards nodded.

She looked to the prisoner for confirmation and he nodded as well.

“Good. You may leave us.”

The guards looked like they wanted to protest, but they had escorted the prisoner here and likely knew that he posed no threat to anyone in such a state. They nodded again and left, hesitating before closing the door behind them.

Silence fell. The fire crackled in the hearth and the prisoner shifted his meager weight from one foot to the other. Except he wasn’t a prisoner anymore and she wouldn’t keep calling him one.

“What is your name?”

“Reek,” he answered, exactly as he had in the dungeons.

“I mean your real name. The one your mother gave you.”

“Reek has no mother. Reek has no one except Lord Ramsay.”

“I see.” She folded her arms across her chest. “And did Lord Ramsay give you that name?”

“Reek rhymes with weak.”

That must be a yes.

“Lord Ramsay is dead,” she said bluntly.

He didn’t look like he believed her. He certainly hadn’t when she’d told him before. Tomorrow she’d take him out to the ramparts and show him “Lord Ramsay’s” head. She’d take all the former prisoners out and show them what had become of the lords of this horrid place.

“You don’t need to answer to that name anymore.”

His head dropped and she could see him contemplating his feet. “Rhymes with meek.”

He continued to rock from one foot to the other. Perhaps it was painful to stand? “Come sit by the fire,” she suggested. She’d let the name thing go for now. Let him come to trust that she wasn’t going to hurt him, then she’d ask again.

She crossed the room, crooking her finger for him to follow. He did, on staggering feet, wringing his hands together as he went. There were a pair of wingback chairs near the fire, but the bed was softer and would probably be more comfortable for a man who’d spent Gods-knew-how-long lying on a cold, hard floor. She patted the mattress.

“Sit.”

He acted like she’d swung a sword at him. In a flash he was on his knees on the floor, head bent low, as if to avoid some blow aimed his way. Dany cursed herself. She’d said the wrong thing. Maybe it had come off as a command rather than a suggestion?

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, shaking his head. She couldn’t see what expression he wore on his face, but his voice sounded absolutely miserable. “I’m not—I can’t—I can’t please a woman the way a man should.” His shoulders shook, a small sob escaped amidst the groveling. “B-but I could use my mouth. Lord Ramsay said I was becoming better at hiding my teeth.”

Dany grabbed her hand away from the bed and stood ramrod straight, realizing her mistake. She should have known. After all she’d seen in Astapor and Mereen, she should have known. And now that she did, she couldn’t say she was surprised. Disgusted, but not surprised.

She took the few steps to his trembling form. “I know you think that’s what I want from you, but it’s not.”

He sniffled. “Then what _do_ you want from me?”

“An ally.”

He finally looked up at that.

“I am a stranger here, in this strange land. I will need all the allies I can gather if I am to take what if rightfully mine.”

His eyes lacked the clarity of understanding.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she knelt to be on his level and took his hands in hers. He was missing four fingers—two on each hand—but he returned her slight squeeze nonetheless.

“And you…” she went on. “Surely you could use some allies of your own.”

“Reek doesn’t des—”

“Shh,” she cut him off. “I won’t call you by that name. And if you won’t tell me what your mother called you, or if you can’t remember, then I shall give you a new one.”

He didn’t reply.

“Would you like me to give you a new name?”

“Theon.”

“Theon?” she repeated.

“The name my mother gave me. Theon Greyjoy.”

That sounded familiar. Half-remembered instances of Viserys instructing her on the great houses of Westeros, “to better know our enemy.” She could name them off by rote. Greyjoy was one, she was sure. They were Lords of…that she wasn’t so sure of. The Salty Cliffs, maybe? But she did remember they had remained neutral during the Uprising. Viserys had scorned them as cowards, but they had _not_ sided with the Usurper. And this man had turned his cloak on those who had. There might yet be some loyalty among the great houses.

“Theon,” she said again. A shudder ran through his bones; she could feel it above his shaking even. If he was truly a highborn lord, it would change her plans. She stood slowly, drawing him up with her. He followed her lead. “Would you like to stay here for the night?”

Theon Greyjoy stared at her.

“The bed is large enough for two. You can have the side closest to the fire.”

“I could not ask—”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering. And it is a grave insult to turn down an offer made by a Queen.”

She hadn’t thought it was possible for him to become paler, or for his eyes to become larger. “Yes, m’lady. Er, Your Grace.” He tore away from her and began fumbling with the laces of his oversized shirt.

“You may keep your clothes on,” Dany said in a quickened panic. “I already told you I don’t want _that_ from you.”

He looked about as relieved as she _felt_ when he let his hands fall to his sides. He gave an apologetic nod and walked around the bedframe like it was a cavernous, gaping pit. As he worked up the courage to feel the mattress, Dany summoned Missandei to help her ready for bed.

Missandei kept eying Theon as she helped Dany into her nightgown and brushed out her hair. She wasn’t in the habit of questioning her friend and Queen’s choice of bed partners, but no doubt the broken man with the gaunt face raised _some_ questions. Still, she said nothing as she ran the comb through Dany’s silvery hair.

Their usual easy banter was conspicuously absent that evening. Perhaps Missandei was even jealous, expecting her Queen to offer her the honor of the warm bed in this odd, frozen land. They’d shared enough on the journey from Essos, certainly.

Before Missandei left, her tasks done, Dany brushed a hand gently over her friend’s cheek. “I will explain tomorrow.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Khaleesi.”

“But I will. I promise.” She gave the girl a peck on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Theon had finally gathered the courage to climb under the covers, though he pulled the sheets close enough to create a cocoon around himself. Dany didn’t disturb him as she got in on the other side of the bed. She made sure to leave several feet of distance between them. He was dead silent, and she supposed he’d already fallen asleep. He must have been tired enough to pass out.

She settled herself in to sleep, trying to banish the images of pleading hands reaching out for her.

 

 

*******

 

 

She awoke screaming. Or was someone else screaming? She couldn’t remember where she was at first. She was in a strange grey-stone room with odd furniture. It was cold in here. Someone was thrashing next to her.

Theon Greyjoy.

Remembering herself, she sat up and took hold of his shoulders to stop him thrashing, to wake him up. He felt tiny and breakable in her hands.

His eyes flew open, and apparently he didn’t remember where he was either, not right away. “M’la—Your Grace.” His voice was hoarse. “Did I wake you?”

“It’s fine. You are safe.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Shh.” She ran a hand through his short hair. It was brittle, like it might break off at such a gesture. He leaned into it, though, seeking comfort. “I have nightmares too,” she told him.

His eyes searched hers, looking for a lie. “Do you ever wake up screaming?”

“Yes.”

He was still. After a few moments, his rapid breathing leveled out, and the rise and fall of his chest returned to normal. He was so thin, Dany swore she could see the fluttering of his heart between his ribs, even under his shirt.

Once she was sure he was calm, she made to move back to her own side of the bed, but he grabbed her wrist. His strength was no greater than it had been when he’d grabbed her in the washing room. She could easily pull away. But she didn’t.

“Please,” he said through cracked lips. “It’s been so long since anyone…touched me like that.” _Gently_ , his eyes told her. He was a boy calling out to his mother. And she was a mother.

She slid in next to him. He turned to face her, and they curled in on each other. He twisted a lock of her hair between his remaining fingers, seemingly marveling at its softness when his own, the same color, was only so much dry bristle. She ran her hand over his head in gentle, steady strokes and watched his eyes droop as he fell back into sleep.

“You can go to sleep,” she murmured. “You are free now. I will protect you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may come back to this storyline in a later installment, but for now I'm going to leave it at a happy place. Because the eventual ending is not happy and the next story is not happy and, yes, I am a horrible person.


End file.
